The wind howled over the frozen ridge, a voice full of whispers and regret. Daniel pulled his coat tighter, boots crunching against the ice. His breath fogged in front of him, a ghost of warmth in a place that had none.
He didn’t remember the last time he’d seen a familiar face. Days? Weeks? Time blurred when you were alone. The mountains stretched forever, empty but watching. He could feel it. Eyes in the storm.
His radio was dead. His food nearly gone. And yet, he walked. Because stopping meant thinking. Thinking meant remembering.
A house. A yellow dog. Laughter. Warmth. Love.
Gone.
He shoved the memories away. They were dead weight, colder than the wind. He had to keep moving. Had to find—what? A way out? A reason? Maybe neither mattered. Maybe it was just about taking the next step.
A shape loomed in the distance. A cabin, its windows dark, its door barely hanging on. He staggered toward it, chest tight. Shelter. Maybe even firewood.
Inside, dust coated everything. But on the mantel, something gleamed. A photo frame, tipped on its side.
His hands shook as he picked it up.
His house. His dog. His family.
His breath hitched. Impossible.
The wind screamed outside, rattling the walls.
He turned slowly.
And saw the footprints—leading inside.
